Fallout: Lost Plague (IC/RPG/OPEN)

[Tayner]

<OOC>
<Discord>
The Pub

---

Buck Graham
Greensboro, GA
06/09/2281

The sun was beating down hard on Buck as he walked down the road, rifle slung over his shoulder as he made his way to one of his favorite hunting grounds. It was a long walk, but he always bagged a good deer there. It was always a bitch bringing it back though. However, he heard gunshots in the distance, down the road. Not always a surprise in the wasteland, but it was close enough to be of concern. He slung out his rifle and eased up to the top of the hill the road crossed.

Looking through his scope he saw a grizzly scene a couple hundred yards away from him. A raiding party, at least 50 strong. Half a dozen were circled around a merchant, who was on his knees begging for his life. The corpse of his guard laid on the ground beside him, brains splattered across the pavement. A few more raiders were rustling through the merchant's dead brahmin's pack, the rest were milling about, watching the woods. One raider, likely the leader who was clad in heavy metal armor, walked up to the group accosting the merchant, and hit the man over the head with his fist.

The merchant fell unconscious, and he was dragged off to the rear of the raider group into what looked like to be a caged cart, full of beaten up people.

Slavers.

The leader looked up, directly towards Buck.

Oh fuck oh shit

He didn't have the ammo to fight, or the will. He was only one man. The leader pointed him out.

Shit shit shit fuck

He turned around and simply took off running. A few cracks were heard as the Raiders took potshots at him before he escaped their sight. They were likely going to follow him, so he took to the woods. He had to get back to Greensboro, he had to warn the town. The slavers were coming right for them. If he was lucky they'd have an hour head start, maybe more. A large group with Brahmin in tow, he couldn't tell. He just had to be quick.

---

"Open the gates!" Buck yelled.

"Buck? What's happening?" The guard, Gerold, said. Gerold was only a part time watchman, taking a couple hours a day to stand watch to give James a break.

"Open the fucking gates damnit!" Buck reiterated, his voice likely heard by many in the town.

"Woah, calm the fuck down Buck." Gerold said as he pulled a chain, opening the gates to the small farming community.

"You don't fuckin' understand-" Buck started.

"What's this ruckus all about?" James said, an older settler who was the settlement's only full time guard. He wasn't pleased with the scene, and he wasn't fond of Buck to say the least.

"God damnit, they- they're fucking- goddamn-"

"Calm down, son. What are you going on about?" James spoke.

"Slavers! They're heading this way!"

"How many?" Gerold asked.

"God damn, fifty! Maybe more. We need to go!" He spoke quickly as he started to pace around. "Shit."

"Alright. Town meeting time. Buck, ring the bell, Gerold, go round up the people in the fields. And that van der Meer girl too. The rest of ya, get to the Pub." He said.

---

The Pub was the town's watering hole. It also doubled as a meeting place for various occasions. Weddings, birthdays, or other celebrations were held here, just as town meetings. James was elected 'sheriff' here, and again as 'mayor.' They all agreed to build the walls here, and agreed to let James recruit some others to help him police the town here. Now they were assembling to determine what to do. They didn't have enough people to stand up against a large raiding band, and better yet they didn't have many options.

As the last of the town filed in, James spoke up from the front of the room. "Alright, as many of you have already heard, we've got a large band of slavers heading this way. Too many to fight." He started.

"Who saw them?" One towns person called out.

"Buck did." He answered.

"About 60 of them. At least." Buck added, from his seat in the back as many people looked over their shoulder to look to him.

"We don't have many options. To the north we've got the badlands, to the east there's not much for days. Our best bet is to make it to Macon to the south." He started.

"How will we get past the swamp folk?" Another towns person called out."

"Why don't we just head east?" Another added.

"Why can't we just stay here? They might pass us over!" A third citizen spoke up.

"Bullshit!" Called Buck. "Piss on all that, we need to leave!"

"Suggestions?" Asked James, opening up the floor to the townspeople.

[Anowa]

"Suggestions?" Asked James, opening up the floor to the townspeople.

It wasn't every day that the sound of such a commotion reached Julie's ears. Generally people kept quiet, or tried not to make a fuss. But given the amount of concern in people's voices as well as some of the words being thrown around, Julie couldn't help but take notice.

It had been over 200 years since she stepped onto the beaches of an irradiated America, and it seemed like the longer she spent alive the more naive everyone seemed. It could just be her won experiences not matching up with everyone else's, or it could just be the general fact that townspeople like this weren't too keyed in on how the world worked. They would never be passed over by raiders or slaver, simply assimilated or gutted. Traveling too far would also kill a pack unless they were exceedingly well prepared. And traveling North into high occupancy zones like major cities would kill you dead, either the left over rads or whatever else crawled around the concrete jungle.

Julie however, was still new to town, her voice didn't pack much weight, if anyone present even knew who she was...

Regardless, Julie never accomplished anything by staying quiet.

A gravelly voice, feminine, and mildly muffled through a filterless gas mask spoke up. To anyone who had spent more than a hour in the wasteland would very easily recognize it as a ghoul's. "It's either you folks head to Macon, or you die. There is no alternative."

To those in view, a woman clad in plated armor across chest, legs and arms would see an incredibly worn camouflage pattern and multiple stencils, from abbreviated months and names of foreign cities, to a title and rank on the front collar. Dinged, banged and scuffed from a very long period of use.

"Those of you with guns can ward off the Swampfolk, either by sheer presence or shooting them until they fuck off or die."

[Vacif]

"Suggestions?" Asked James, opening up the floor to the townspeople.

Samson wasn't a local, no he was from Creektown. Well, at least that's where he was based out of. If you really wanted to get specific, he was from the hell hole that was Atlanta. He was a bit of a travelling merchant, which was why he was in Greensboro today. He usually traveled with a pack Brahmin, but not for Greensboro. It was a small settlement out of the way, and the most convenient ways there were either through the Gray, and Moss, which charged merchants extra because of their caravan, or through Seeder territory, where anything larger than himself would probably get noticed by the hill people. Alternatively, there was the option to head north from Creektown to Circle, and head east from there to get to Greensboro.

The retired raider was already in the Pub when the townspeople gathered around to discuss their raiders troubles. Slavers to be more specific. It was strange to see them this far north, the raiders from Dublin didn't usually stray this far, which meant they were probably raiders from Atlanta.

You can always go home huh?

That meant these guys were probably exceptionally well trained and equipped. A group of sixty plus raiders would be more than what a small town of people could handle. They had to run. Simple as that. The north was a no go, their west was the Circle which could work, but that was probably where the raiders were coming from. The East was nothing but another city which wasn't any better than Atlanta, which meant south to Macon, the only issue was two sets of swamp folk. Seeder and Moss. Seeder shot on sight, so they would have to fight or sneak their way through, getting an an entire town through though would be difficult, and they'd likely resort to fighting their way through. With Moss you could pay them, but they'd likely see the this as an easy mark, and jack up the prices. He wasn't sure how much these people could afford. Moss wasn't stingy on what the pay was, and were more than willing to take on people. He shuddered at the though of that.

"Those of you with guns can ward off the Swampfolk, either by sheer presence or shooting them until they fuck off or die."

"Agreed. The east is just another Atlanta, the north has nothing, so your best bet in south. To the west is the Circle, relatively friendly folk but there lies the issue of getting past the raiders. Speaking of, where are they coming from?"


He waited for the response before continuing. "I can help lead you through the Seeder's territory, god knows I've cut through there enough times, but we'll probably need to shoot out way through with this many people. Alternatively we can follow the roads south but it'll cost you in probably so hefty road tolls."

[The Hoosier Alliance]

Markus didn't want to be there. I mean, he did, but only because that's where the town's booze was. The pub was the only place Markus spent any real amount of time in while he was in Greensboro, other than his father's grave just outside of town. It was here he drank until he ran out of caps and it was here he stumbled out of last minute, after being kicked out by the bartender when he wanted to be served after hours.

Now, a bunch of asshats were filing in and were soon yelling about...something. The alcohol clouded his mind and made following the conversation rather difficult, but he eventually picked up on key words, some of which were "slavers", "leave", and "more booze". Wait, no. No one said more booze, that's just what he was thinking. He looked up from his now empty glass and tried to find the bartender, only to see that everyone, including the person responsible for serving him his damn drinks, was crowded around and talking about the slavers.

Markus tried to rack his brain in order to figure out why they were talking about slavers. Were they the slavers? No, they were townspeople, Markus concluded, what with all the non-slaves running around here. Hmmmmmm....slavers must be on the way here, Markus thought, so they can....enslave folk. Markus stood up, stumbling and briefly falling to his knee before he grabbed the edge of the bar and slowly and shakily brought himself back to standing.

"H-hey!" Markus yelled, to no one in particular, "If y'all are leaving cuz 'a the slavers, I think you can still serve me one more fuckin' drink. Or two. Hell, ten." He hiccuped before he continued, suddenly remembering the fact he would be enslaved should he be caught, "Then again, we should get moving soon, so just bring all the booze with us. And don't worry folks, I can help." He pulled out his 10mm and lazily pointed it upwards towards the ceiling, "I am the perfect amount of drunk to shoot." To puncuate his sentence, Markus took a swig of his personal bottle of scotch, which he brought into a bar for some reason. Throughout his entire ramble, Markus didn't even pay attention to see if anyone at all was paying him any mind.

[Skyhooked]

When all this mess started, Jorgen Helm was sitting near one of the tables and enjoying relatively good beer and steak. This big, long haired man with beard, multiple visible scars on both his arms and a large scar near his damaged eye made an impression of a veteran fighter. His old slightly baggy jeans and police bulletproof vest, on which he painted valknut, a symbol of three interlocked triangles with white paint fit his look. However, his face didn't look too serious, as he is a fun loving person too, who was slightly naive.

Jorgen stayed to listen to the local legends and stories, as they might lead him to interesting untouched places. Possibly even pre war facilities of some sort, that are packed with expensive and exclusive goods, or lost knowledge. With Pip boy and Odin's guidance, it could be found relatively fast.

As he enjoyed his meal, suddenly James started to announce, that slavers are coming to Greensboro. At first, Jorgen though, that he would join the fight together with the townsfolk and give the raiders beating they deserve, until it became evident, that there are too many of them and townsfolk won't be fighting. He listened to the conversations, and heared mulltiple proposals. To Jorgen, the direction didn't mean much, as it's just another way during his journey. If some ghoul and travelling mercant say to Macon, it's Macon then. Why not?"

"Those of you with guns can ward off the Swampfolk, either by sheer presence or shooting them until they fuck off or die."

"Count me in! I'll gladly take up my gun, axe and fight alongside you! And when swampfolks fall, we shall distribute the loot between us! May Thor guide us! Til Valhall!"-Jorgen said loudly and raised his service rifle, pointing it upon the ceiling.

"Then again, we should get moving soon, so just bring all the booze with us. And don't worry folks, I can help."

A proposal of taking drinks to the hike from Markus was something he liked, even if it was badly worded. Leaving alcohol to slavers, the people, whom he hated with passion, was a big no-no for Jorgen, and the skald decided to open his mouth again. -"I agree with the offer to take booze for our travel! First of all, we must not only escape, but also make sure, that slavers will not have enough resouces to pursue us, so we could win time to regroup! And one day, take the town back! Also, alcohol is not only for the feasts. Thanks Freyja, It can also purge the battle wounds, dull the pain, and even serve as the valuable currency itself! I can carry some too and still be able to run."

Jorgen didn't actually care too much for medical uses, but those arguments could win him more drinks, and possibly even improve the situation upon arrival to the new place, so he used them.

[Beiarusia]

Ennis van der Meer
Greensboro

"Do be careful Miss Ennis."

The teenager, sitting cross-legged atop an old wooden stool, paused in her task to peer quizzically at the Mister Handy that, quite literally, hovered over her like an overprotective parent, its "eye" watching the tedious process of disconnecting the central core from inside a salvaged Eyebot. The metal frame had rusted completely after however many years left abandoned to the wastes and was dangerously sharp in places due to apparent ballistic damage. (A gunshot most likely.) A simple cut on the arm could prove life threatening from tetanus or any number of sickness, and was a valid concern, if Ennis had an arm to cut. Thus she continued unfazed by the worrywart that insisted on proper precautions.

"I have my goggles on," she said, leaning in close to better see inside the dark interior of the robot as her fingers worked loose the stubborn copper. Much of the Eyebot had decayed to the point of uselessness but, surprisingly, a few bits still functioned, enough so to be reconditioned.

"I do understand, but there is no telling just how much dust is inside that pitiful contraption," Nathaniel said, his Englishman voice marred by evident distaste of filth and grime. He hovered to the opposite side of the workbench and lowered just a fraction of a bit as if leaning in to better inspect the scrap. "So much dirt. Oh, please be mindful of your allergies! You know how sensitive your nose is."

Ennis rolled her eyes dismissively. Her nose was itching but that was beside the point.

The teenager lived alone now that her grandfather had passed. Her and Nathaniel and a few simpler robots amongst the many "works-in-progress" that lacked any semblance of a sophisticated personality. (A Protectron and an Eyebot were functional; a second Protectron was almost functional.) The secluded garage was perhaps a mile outside town and rarely had visitors, and never anything cordial. The townsfolk would sometimes pay her (and previously her grandfather) to fix something but the relationship ended there. A few seemed more interested in her wellbeing, perhaps due to her age, or her disability, but it wasn't as if she were starving or else living in squalor (though some would disagree with the mess), she simply liked robots more than people, the only exception being her grandfather who made certain she was looked after once he was gone.

A lot had happened in the last six years. Some bad, but also some good. A family. A home. A second chance after her accident.

The servos of the salvaged Eyebot rumbled to life as power suddenly flowed into the weathered machinery, overloading the circuits, which promptly exploded. The blast was nothing serious, a firecracker, but Ennis, flailing backwards in exaggerated surprise, had had her face showered in an eruption of sparks and the rancid smoke of burnt-out circuitry. She tried to maintain her balance but toppled over backwards and landed flat on her back.

"Miss Ennis!" cried Nathaniel as he hurried around to where she had fallen. She was coughing rather violently (from the smoke and dust) but was already sitting upright, her face blackened by the soot and her hair smoldering a tad bit. Without warning Nathaniel doused her with his fire extinguisher, smothering the embers all the while eliciting an angry protest of curses and hands batting wildly at the offending manipulator arm. The fog settled with Ennis waving away the remainder of the irritating mist as Nathaniel prodded her head and shoulders like a doctor checking for injuries. "My sincerest apologizes but you were on fire!"

Ennis shot Nathaniel an exasperated look as she rubbed at her nose and mouth, pulled down her goggles so that her annoyance was more plainly visible, and then stood, dusting herself off before stalking over to a nearby table where several items lay haphazardly thrown atop. She found a package of cigarettes, shook one loose, and then fiddled for the lighter which required several strikes to catch fire. Next she righted the stool so that she had somewhere to sit as she mulled over what could be salvaged from the junk, chin in hands and cigarettes limp between her lips as the smoke curled around her head. The primary CPU was fried (hardware and software) and the motherboard had cracked, but the energy unit was active so it wasn't a total loss. Plus anything that could pop had already done so. Ripping out the component would be as simple as tugging it free. Everything else was junk so sawing into the frame to dismantle it would also work wonders. A snack break first, then work.

There came a loud pounding at the door. Nathaniel chimed,"I will get the door!" then did exactly that. Gerald was standing on the other side and looked as if he'd made a good pace on his way over from Greensboro. A brisk jog by the looks of it. "Ah, Mister Gerald! To what do we owe the visit?"

The man pushed Nathaniel aside and entered the garage to properly call out to the girl. "Town meeting. Get on down to the bar ASAP."

She didn't bother to turn to face the man. "And?"

"And? Look, kid, this is an emergency so you best be getting on down there or am I gonna have to drag you by the ear?"

Ennis sighed, perhaps more dramatically than necessary, as she snuffed out what was left of the cigarette. "Fine. Fine. I'll come to the meeting."

And so she did, joining the entirety of the town (and passersby) in the small hole-in-the-wall as they discussed the grim situation at hand. She didn't like it, nothing at all that she heard, not because of the mention of raiders or slavers or whatever they were called, but because the townsfolk were so eager to abandon everything, to abandon home, without so much as considering an alternative. James, the mayor, was asking for everyone's opinions, their suggestions. Julia, a ghoul, said they should head to Macon; an outsider agreed; another outsider was drunk and slurring his words. Meanwhile, Ennis sat there brooding atop her barstool as everything she'd found since coming here, the idea of home, was quickly torn out from under her.

"Sit down before you hurt yourself," she barked at the drunkard who was very adamant about saving the booze. Then she addressed the others, trying once only to be overshadowed by the more vocal townsfolk, so she shouted to get everyone's attention, and only after things had quieted down did she speak. All eyes on her, a scrawny teenager in oil-stained coveralls and a moth-eaten cardigan to cover her arms. "Are we just going to leave everything because someone thinks they saw some bandits? Abandon everything on a whim? Even if he did see something, you don't know that they'll even come this way."

[Shadowwell]

Roderick Mckade
Practicing Medicine since 2267
Roderick had arrived after the Meeting began but he was still able to catch the reason why the meeting had been called. He listened as the townsfolk made their own suggestions and a few outsiders chimed in as well. One of them suggested taking the booze with them if they fled, Roderick knew that would be unlikely.

Ennis van der Meer
Greensboro
"Sit down before you hurt yourself," she barked at the drunkard who was very adamant about saving the booze. Then she addressed the others, trying once only to be overshadowed by the more vocal townsfolk, so she shouted to get everyone's attention, and only after things had quieted down did she speak. All eyes on her, a scrawny teenager in oil-stained coveralls and a moth-eaten cardigan to cover her arms. "Are we just going to leave everything because someone thinks they saw some bandits? Abandon everything on a whim? Even if he did see something, you don't know that they'll even come this way."

Roderick gave a brief chuckle at the teens response. He was familiar with the young roboticist, he had operated on her the day she was attacked and lost her arms. He had assisted her recovery after a few of her experiments in the time since she returned. She was a bright child but her area of expertise led to more dire personal consequences than Rodericks own much of the time.

After a time Roderick gave his own two cents on the matter, though he tried not to be too grating.

"It seems no matter what we choose there will be risks, we stay we risk dying we go we risk dying. I am not one who is well inclined to combat. However no matter what decision is made i will be here to lend my medical skills."

[Tayner]

James
Greensboro
06/09/2281

James stood at the front of the crowd as they discussed, planned, asked questions, and argued. Many were addimant to leave, but a few elected to argue to stay. The travelers were less serious about the situation, they didn't have roots here, one going as far to raise his voice and speak like this would be some adventure, before joining in the growing pool of volunteers to carry alcohol. Finally the Doc had chimed in, offering his services no matter what the general consensus was.

"No one will be carrying my stock!" Dean, the local bartender nearly yelled at those who would take possession of his goods. "Unless you pay for it, it's mine, and I don't want any of you running away with it." He said, willing to protect his stock if he had to.

"I'm inclined to support Dean's position here." James said before Buck spoke up.

"And I won't be dividing any of the loot from my kills with anyone." Buck stated. "They're coming from the west, too. The Swamp people offer the least resistance, and if we avoid the roads where they set most of their traps, it should be simple enough. I've done plenty of hunting around there, so I can guide us through." He added, looking to James.

"Very well. I'm not going to force anyone on this trip, but raiders and slavers are particularly thorough when it comes to stealing and killing." James said.

"They're gonna fucking kill you if you stay." Buck added, more bluntly. James shot him a glare for a second, even when they were on the same page James seemed against him.

"We'll be leaving in thirty minutes, I don't even want to stay here that long. Gather your things and meet by the gate." James ordered to those who were willing to listen.

---

Buck Graham
Greensboro
06/09/2281

The sun was beating down hard now, the afternoon heat hitting the group hard as they assembled at the gate. Buck had grabbed everything he could fit into his bag and pockets. Everything from ammo and food to memories in the form of mementos. His late adoptive father's hat, a few scraps of paper containing simple notes from the man, and a old empty whiskey bottle, his real parent's only real gift to him besides a broken nose that never healed properly. He didn't know why he carried these things, but he did. He didn't want to forget anything about his life.

Buck would walk through the gate first, stopping briefly to steal a last look at the town that had served as his home for many years now, before leading the group out, heading eastwards a ways before finding an old deer trail that went south. The group was walking single file, Buck at the front with the deputies behind him, and James taking the rear, watching over the group like he was a shepherd and they were his flock. Eventually the trail ran out, and Buck had to lead the group into the swamp, almost waist high water. People were clinging to each other, holding on to one another in case anyone went under.

It wasn't pleasant, but it was the quickest way. They might make it out of swampfolk territory before nightfall if they kept up the pace.

---

Cottonmouth
Greensboro

The town was deserted, it was apparent. When one of her raiders elected to inform her of it, she smacked them hard. "Any idiot can see that, dumbass. Get out of my way." She spat, hand resting on her pistol belt. The man dare not challenge her, it was rumored that she could kill seven men in six seconds with her gun, many claimed to be whiteness of such. However, it was understood that she could kill, better than most, and that's why she was the boss. Even in Atlanta raiders avoided her, and her gang, unless it was for business.

She walked up to one of her lieutenants, Hog, a skilled tracker and killer. It was once said he gave a slave a two day head start and still caught them within 24 hours, all on a bet. "Take five men, meet us at Gibson in two days." She ordered. He simply nodded and bowed out, understanding his mission, before taking his group and following the trail. It wasn't hard, there were dozens of footsteps, it would be an easy mark.

---

James
The Swamplands
06/09/2281

They had crossed the swamp, and the group had stopped to change their socks before heading on. They had started to chatter some now, but Buck didn't like it. They were still in swampfolk territory, and sunlight was running out. After about another 20 minutes of walking, James heard a snap behind him. He spun around, and came face to face with a stranger, clad in scrap metal armor. He could barely open his mouth before he felt hands wrap around his neck.

He was taken hostage, spun around and had a gun put to the back of his head, just like John, and Mack's boy, Timothy. The raiders not holding hostages moved to encircle the group as they were caught off guard.

"Anyone moves and the boy gets it!" One of the raiders yelled. "Hands where we can see them!"

He grasped at his captor's arm that held him by the neck. Fuck James thought, before speaking up. "Do as they say! We don't wan-" He was cut off by a blow to the back of his head.

"We don't need your help, meat." The raider said, before pressing the barrel of his pistol hard into his neck.

[Skyhooked]

Saga of Jorgen
The Swamplands

Jorgen was walking slightly ahead of the group, drinking his scotch and singing some song in Norwegian. This jolly drunk viking couldn't care less about swamps rough, and just carried on, while looking around with his sole eye for loot. Swamps tend to hide and preserve many things, that can be useful or give an insight on the philosophy and life of the past. He had many records from holotapes saved on his pip boy.

Too bad, Jorgen's eye couldn't spot the raiders, who managed to sneak up on the group, and so he ended up with the hostage situation, he will probably have to resort.

Surrendering was out of question for Jorgen, as he thought, that this will deny him his feast with Odin and make him an unworthy warrior. Besides, people like him make horrible slaves. He knew the best not to just throw himself at hostiles however, as this would kill the hotages and that's all. Now it's time to try his best in being not only mighty as Thor but also cunning as Loki and save the situation.

Jorgen took out his magnum and axe, before raiders said about raising hands, and he decided to use his silver tongue and bluff to handle the hostage situation: "You want to threaten a group of peaceful townfolks and yet you shield yourself behind a boy, even when your prey is an easy one. You are just a crawen unworthy of even being called a raider! Even with one eye I see, how your hands tremble and your goons laugh at your pitiful attempts to threated us!

We will never bend to a coward like you, neither your goons will obey you, even weakest slaves will spit at you! So grow a pair, release the hostages and fight like a man you claim to be!"

[The Hoosier Alliance]

Markus hated this swamp. Like, a lot. It was wet, it was dark, and worst of all there was no booze or a place to pass out. At this point, the nice buzz he had going for most of the trip up to that point was starting to wear off. When the bartender back in town had refused to allow Markus to bring the alcohol with, he was rather upset. Still, it wasn't worth fighting for. Or at least it wasn't worth it then, but now Markus would kill for a drink. He was torn between drinking the few bottles he had with him or saving them for later.

He was walking with the rest of group near the middle as he debated with himself. His right hand was resting on his 10mm which hung at his side in its holster. His left was buried in his pocket, fiddling with one of his bottles of whiskey as he considered drinking it. However, before he could come to a conclusion, Markus heard yelling and struggling off to his side.

"Anyone moves and the boy gets it!"

Before the raider's sentence was finished, Markus had his 10mm out, pointed at the bastard. As the raider finished his threats and hitting the man he was holding, Markus laughed and pulled out his bottle of whiskey, deciding now would be a perfect time to drink it. He opened it with his left hand, turning his head but keeping his eyes on the raiders, and took a long swig before closing it back up and replacing it in his pocket.

"Naw, I think we do want trouble boy," Markus said, a wicked smile on his face, "These folk here ain't gonna do nothin' nice if we put down our guns. Trust me, I've been on the other end of this type of hold up several times before. But I sure as 'ell never been pussy enough to take a kid hostage!" Markus spit on the ground in front of him. "Drop the hostages. Or don't. Don't matter me, I'll put a bullet in ya all the same."